Harlinscourt soon became one of those great houses that everyone talked about. At first, many of the Burke’s Peerage crowd talked about how terribly vulgar it was for a Singaporean to buy one of the finest houses in Britain and try to run it “in the old way” with its mind-numbing number of staff and all the trimmings. But the landed gentry accepted their invitations anyway and after their visits grudgingly had to admit that the Shangs hadn’t mucked it up. The restoration was splendid, the grounds were even more splendid, and the food—well, that was utter heaven. In the decades that followed, guests the world over began to covet their invitations because word got out that Harlinscourt’s chef Marcus Sim—a Hong Kong–born prodigy who had trained with Frédy Girardet—was a genius in both classic French and Chinese cuisine. And it was the thought of breakfast this morning that made Jacqueline reluctantly get out of bed.

She walked into the dressing room adjoining her bedroom and discovered a fire already burning in the fireplace, a vase of freshly cut Juliet roses arranged on the dressing table, and the outfit she had selected for the morning already hanging against the copper warming rack. Jacqueline slipped on her figure-hugging cream fit-and-flare sleeveless dress with iconic pointelle knit trim, marveling at how it had been warmed to the perfect temperature. She thought of weekends at other English estates, where the bedrooms felt like iceboxes in the morning and her clothes felt just as frozen when she put them on. I don’t even think that the queen lives this well, Jacqueline thought, recalling that before Alfred and Mabel had moved in, her godmother, Su Yi, had sent a team over from Tyersall Park to help train the British staff properly. Asian hospitality standards were fused with English manor-house traditions, and even her boyfriend Victor had been impressed the last time he visited. Holding up his Aubercy dress shoes one evening as they dressed for dinner, he said in astonishment, “Honey, they fucking ironed my shoelaces!”

This morning, it was the chef’s eggs that most astonished Jacqueline as she sat at one end of the immense dining table in the Grade II Heritage-listed breakfast room. “Ummmm. How is it that only Marcus can make scrambled eggs like this?” She sighed to Mabel as she savored another forkful.

“Doesn’t your chef do good eggs?” Mabel asked.

“Sven’s omelets are fabulous, and he can poach perfectly. But there is something about these scrambled eggs that are absolutely divine. Fluffy, creamy, and just the right amount of runny. I look forward to every visit because of them. What is the secret?”

“No idea—I never touch the eggs. But you must try some of this yu zhook.*2 It’s made with Dover sole that was caught just this morning,” Mabel said.

“It’s the cream. Marcus uses the top cream made from our Guernsey cows in the scrambled eggs,” twelve-year-old Lucia Shang piped up from the far end of the table.

“At last—she speaks! That’s the first peep I’ve heard out of you all morning, Lucia. Now, what’s this book you’re so engrossed in? You’re not still reading those Hunger Games vampire novels, are you?” Jacqueline asked.

“The Hunger Games isn’t about vampires. And I stopped reading them ages ago. I’m reading Siddhartha now.”

“Ah, Hesse. He’s quite good.”

“It sounds Indian,” Mabel said, scrunching up her nose at her granddaughter.

“It’s about the Buddha.”

“Aiyah, Lucia, what are you doing reading about Buddha? You’re a Christian, and don’t forget that we come from a very distinguished long line of Methodists.”

“Yes, Lucia, on your great-grandmother Rosemary’s side—the Youngs—your ancestors were actually the first Christians in southern China,” Jacqueline agreed.

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Actually, if it wasn’t for missionaries running amok in China after England won the Opium Wars, we’d all be Buddhists.”

“Shut up, lah! Don’t talk back to Auntie Jacqueline!” Mabel admonished.

“It’s fine, Mabel. Lucia’s just speaking her mind.”

Mabel wouldn’t let it go, muttering to Jacqueline, “Neh gor zhap zhong syun neui; zhan hai suey toh say!”*3

“Ah Ma, I understand every word you’re saying!” Lucia said indignantly.

“No you don’t. Shut up and read your book!”

Cassandra Shang, Mabel’s daughter (and better known by those in her circle as “Radio One Asia”), entered the room, cheeks still flush from her morning ride. Jacqueline did a double take. Cassandra’s hair, normally parted down the middle and pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck Frida Kahlo–style, was rather uncharacteristically braided intricately along the sides but flowing free down her back. “Cass, I haven’t seen your hair down like this in ages! This is a throwback to your Slade days. Looks marvelous!”

Mabel peered at her daughter through her bifocals. “Chyee seen, ah!*4 You’re not a young girl anymore—it looks ridiculous.”

Cassandra felt tempted to tell her mother that you could begin to see the face-lift scars through the thinning hair in her scalp, but she resisted. Instead, she chose to acknowledge Jacqueline’s compliment. “Thanks, Jac. And you look ridiculously perfect as always. New dress?”

“No, lah! I’ve had this old rag for ages,” Jacqueline said deprecatingly.

Cassandra smiled, knowing full well Jacqueline was wearing a one-of-a-kind Azzedine Alaïa. Not that it even mattered what she wore—Jacqueline had the sort of beauty that made anything she put on look drop-dead chic. Cassandra headed to the sideboard, where she helped herself to a single toast point, a dollop of Marmite, and some fresh prunes. As she took her seat opposite Jacqueline, a footman approached, deftly placing her morning cappuccino (made with small-batch, single-origin beans) and iPad next to her.

“Thank you, Paul,” Cassandra said, switching on the device and noticing that her e-mail in-box was unusually full for this early in the morning. The first message came from her cousin Oliver in London:

[email protected]: Have you seen the photos yet? Oy vey! I can already imagine what your mother must be saying…

[email protected]: Which photos?

While she waited for his response, an instant message came in from her sister-in-law India Heskeith Shang. Cassandra looked up from her iPad and announced to everyone, “India just messaged me—apparently Casimir has an opening for his photography at Central Saint Martins tonight and he didn’t tell anyone. She’s wondering if we want to go and surprise him? Lucia, your mother wants to know if you want to go up to London to see your brother’s latest photos?”

“If it’s going to be more pictures of his friends vomiting curry outside of pubs, I’m not interested,” Lucia replied.

“Aiyah, don’t talk like that! It’s fine art. Casimir won an award for his photography last year,” Mabel told Jacqueline, in defense of her favorite grandson.

Cassandra realized that Oliver must be talking about Casimir’s photographs. “Well, I think these photos are going to be quite…daring. I just got an e-mail from Oliver, and apparently he’s already seen them.”